Morgan craned his neck up at the floating island bobbing above him, thoroughly ignoring the corpse embedded in the rock to his left. A rigid spine and a forward stare were the first and most important things that they taught in office academy after all.

The junior officer that had been attached to him kept glancing furtively at the body. He won’t last particularly long. The jailers milling around the body set a lackadaisical atmosphere as they each gave their opinions on the best way to remove offal from the tile work, and furthermore made no move to do anything about it.

One can’t show weakness in this job – that usually loses you your pension. Paradoxically, it’s best to not show too much strength either – that kind of thing gets you noticed. Morgan hadn’t successfully floated around the rank of sergeant for twenty years without a good sense of these things. Ideally, you try to blend in and match yourself to the everyone around you. Copy the response of the regulars. In this case, not much of one at all.

Melanie was a master of the first, but not nearly as proficient at the second. Drawn as she was like a creaking bowstring with irritation as they waited for the elevator to lower down. Morgan felt himself missing David – at least he would say something unbelievably morbid and expect you to laugh.

Another jailer jogged over, carrying a trowel and began scooping the body out of the ground with less artistry than Morgan’s youngest making a mud castle – when she was three. He supressed a wince as they levered the poor bastard’s face out of the ground. The junior officer looked as green as Morgan felt and he took in a lungful of air. If you must break rule one, at least do it loudly.

“Can you lot show a bit of decorum? You stand before representatives of Her Majesty.” Who’s meant to be the representative remains wonderfully unchallenged as the invocation of Her Majesty worked its magic. The jailers bother to fetch the shovels that were probably always meant for this work, and began treating the corpse with at least feigned respect. It was better than nothing.

Melanie stepped forward without a word and Morgan noticed that the elevator had arrived. He followed after her and stepped onto the wooden platform, firmly gripped the handhold as the contraption swayed freely in the breeze. A mess of rope began creaking around a pulley and the platform began to lift upwards, towards the island hanging in the sky.

Morgan always considered it somewhere between typically ostentatious and respectably utilitarian to build a prison on a floating rock. Sure, the costs must have been truly outrageous, but at least a one-hundred-meter drop acts as built-in escape discouragement – not that it stopped that poor soul below from trying.

The elevator came to a wobbly halt at the lip of the island and Morgan stepped out, following the winding stone staircase up to the Coltis prison entrance. He waved Melanie off, to do whatever unspeakable things she’d come here to do, and wound his way through the stone corridors.

Flickering torch light cast his shadow wide, announcing his presence, along with the clank of imperial steel boots. Pale faces turned away as he passed rows of cells and he followed suit, keeping his eyes forward. The junior officer trailed behind him, his shadow twitching as he broke the silent agreement, eyes tracing the gaunt prisoners.

Morgan took another left and arrived at the interrogation rooms. The unspoken misery replaced by muffled moans from behind closed doors. An imperial soldier waved Morgan and the junior officer over and saluted as they drew close.

“Captain Temolt, sir,” his heels clacked together and Morgan waved a hand vaguely at his temple. One benefit of command was not having to remember the dozen or so salute variations anymore.

“Morning sergeant,” Morgan said, his name having slipped him sometime during the trip here and the rank doing what it does best at replacing it. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes sir!” he replied with the unbridled enthusiasm of youth. He seemed vaguely familiar; he could have been the scribe attached to his last mission. But boys his age all look the same.

The soldier opened the door, suitably imperiously, and stalked into the room. Morgan and the junior officer followed him in and took position at the back of the room, this being a supervisory role. The sergeant took a seat at the table, facing the room’s other occupant.

The old man blinked blearily at the three of them, failing to show the appropriate intimidation from the sergeant’s theatrics. Undeterred by the failure – they’re all just following the standard script after all – the sergeant ruffled some papers and began.

“Bolson Soyer, age sixty-four, arrested for soliciting a bribe from imperial officers.” Soyer snorted contemptuously at the charges.

“Yer boys were asking questions, nothing wrong with asking for a little something to jog my memory,” he muttered.

Morgan shifted against the wall, hoping that the old man would keep quiet and let the process happen. He was already lucky that they arrested him. With the sorts of questions that they were asking – and the sorts of people who wanted the answers – you’d usually find yourself face down in an alley and missing a few teeth.

“Witnesses saw you speaking to three wanted fugitives. A girl and two men, one of them a wizard with white hair – what did they speak to you about?” The sergeant pushed on and Soyer’s face pinched in irritation.

“I ain’t saying nothing,” he shouted and spat on the table. The sergeant looked between the splodge of spit and his notes, ticked off something in his notes, then drew a dagger.

“Hold on sergeant,” Morgan said, hurrying forward pushing the blade back down. “Why don’t you step out and I’ll have a crack?” The soldier squinted at him, searching his mental catalogue of regulations. He ultimately failed to come up with anything – no wonder, they’re endless – and his expression turned confused.

“But sir, the interrogation guidelines are pretty clear.”

“And I’m a captain.”

All resistance left the sergeant and he snapped a salute. Morgan never got used to pulling rank. Spend half your life having it done to you and it feel transgressive when you suddenly get to do it to other people – and if there’s one thing to avoid, it’s being transgressive. He can’t deny that it doesn’t work though.

Morgan turned to the Soyer and dropped into the chair, sighing. The old man had the decency to cotton on to the potential severity of the situation. How he’d managed to get carted off to the Coltis floating prison and remain belligerent and uncooperative was anyone’s guess.

“Alright, Mr. Soyer,” Morgan began. “How about you help me help you, and tell me about the three young travellers that you spoke to.” The junior officer dithered behind him and began tentatively scratching parchment with quill. “No need for minutes private,” he said and the scribe startled.

“But sir, they’ll want records of the interview,” he said.

“We’ll workshop it later,” Morgan replied and turned back towards Soyer. The old man gave a slimy grin, smelling blood in the water like a shark in a slaughterhouse.

“I might know a thing or two. Though I might need a little something to air out the old memory,” he said and Morgan prayed to The Mother for strength.

“A rule of thumb Soyer, the Empire doesn’t do bribes – it pays compensation, at best,” Soyer blinked blearily. “Don’t pull this kind of thing if you want to wake up in one piece.” Something managed to get through and Soyer sunk into his chair.

“Now, colloquially speaking, you’re fucked,” Morgan started again. “But if you give me what I want – what my superiors want – then we can see about getting you out of here.” Soyer nodded and Morgan motioned for the scribe to start taking notes again.

When they were done, Morgan plucked the parchment out of the scribe’s hands and flicked through the conversation. He reached the part where Soyer helped the outrealmer and her two companions help evading the Empire, and crossed it out. Pretend they overheard him boasting – that should cover him.

He handed the parchment back to the scribe and told him to copy it out again – corrections included – and walked out, desperate to leave this rock. He stalked past rows of cells; his eyes trained strictly ahead. Pale faces fell into the shadows, but it didn’t stop a head of crimson hair poke through his periphery.

Against his better judgment, he paused. That cultist girl sat hunched in the cell, passively trying to fade into the background. Their eyes met against both their wishes and Morgan nodded awkwardly. She nodded back and he left.

He exited out into the fresh air and sighed as he waited on Melanie. The cultist girl’s tired eyes and lanky hair stayed stuck in his mind’s eye like a grain of sand. He rubbed his eyes and sighed again. At least she’s not dead – and isn’t that what we’re all aiming for at the end of the day?

O – O – O – O – O

I feel something hard jab me in the ribs and I crack my eyes open, partially blinded by the soft morning light. I blink as the scowling face above me pulls itself together and deigns to focus itself. Abbey doesn’t seem willing to wait and prods me again with her foot.

I groan and roll over, feeling slick grass slide over my bare skin. I see my pants hanging off a stick next to the fire and suddenly remember that I’m in my underpants.

“Bugger off back to your side,” I squawk, scrabbling over to my almost dry clothes and struggling into them. Evelyn and Emmet giggle off to the side as they balance sodden bread rolls over the smouldering coals of last night’s fire.

“Stop being a princess, Lulu,” Evelyn calls as Abbey hangs back. “Come over here and light the fire, maybe we can toast these, or something.”

I manage to pull my damp pants up and roll off my back.

“What’s the point in calling sides if you’re just going to ignore them?” I grouse as Evelyn drags a log into the coals.

“You were going to sleep in until lunchtime, what were we meant to do?”

“Send Emmet,” I groan and snap my fingers. The firebolt hits the log and blows off a chunk, which is sick, but not conducive to a campfire. A few more snaps and some fussing with twigs sets the log alight and I sidle close to finish drying out my clothes.

Evelyn keeps rotating the bread rolls, which still drip distressingly with river water. Emmet checks his socks then slides them on with only a hint of discomfort. Footsteps crunch in the gravel behind me and I start.

“So, are you like me then?” Abbey pipes up, her voice a little rough and scratchy. I turn around, smothering my flinch, but she doesn’t seem to care. Her eyebrows are knotted together in a perpetual frown, though her face might just be like that normally.

“What?”

“The fire thing – is it like what I do?” she says with an edge of irritation. Evelyn looks up with interest and I quickly try to arrange my thoughts in such a way as to suggest a modicum of knowledgeability.

“No – I’m a powerful wizard with years of experience. You seem to be tearing a hole in reality every time you wave your hand.” Abbey’s scowl turns intentional and Evelyn mouths ‘be nice’ in exaggerated motions that still take me a second to translate.

“Like, literally?” Evelyn asks, while Abbey clenches her hands unconsciously.

“Yeah, that was a demon at the end. They grow in dimensions with lots of magic – much higher concentrations than this one,” I say and the others grimace. “Nasty little fuckers, but they can get much bigger.” The three of them just stay silent, so I take the opportunity to expand their minds. “My uncle works in demonology and he uses ritual magic to open tears like the one you made,” I gesture to Abbey. “On a basic level, it’s like boring a hole in reality and tapping into another dimension.”

“What about that rock pillar, and the water?” Emmet asks, turning his socks over, but listening curiously.

“There’s a bunch of chaff between the worthwhile dimensions. One might be full of water, full of stone, fire – it rushes out when you pop reality open. Uncle had all sorts of dimensional compasses and the like to get around them.”

Abbey looks to Evelyn with a slightly lost countenance.

“Is this guy for real?” She asks and Evelyn smirks wryly.

“He’s a bit dramatic, but he tends to have the right idea about magic and stuff.”

I wave a hand and mist her with citrus spray. She sneezes, wiping away her stupid smirk and I step primly over to the fire and grab one of the drier bread rolls. The other two come over – Evelyn with a runny nose – and take their rolls off the fire too. Abbey’s stern expression cracks with a wince at the feel of her damp bread roll, but she eats it all the same.

She spends a minute chewing before grimacing again and picking pieces of grit out of her mouth – this is cheap church bread after all. Evelyn used to do the same thing, before she figured out that it’s easier to just swallow it all and let it pass through. Though that might be because she almost cracked a tooth on a pebble last time we ate at an inn.

She’s also wearing a set of blue pants, similar to what Evelyn was wearing when she came through the portal. All signs point to her being a recent dimensional castaway. No wonder she’s so surly. The four of us eat in broadly companionable silence, but she flicks her eyes between us, clearly torn between guarded and curious – and apparently much more pragmatically cautious than Evelyn had been. She catches me looking at her, and her hackles raise.

“What?”

I narrow my eyes at her tone, even though I just decided that it’s probably warranted. We might as well get some things straight either way.

“What’s your story? I assume you’re from Dirt too?” I ask and her confrontational expression slackens with incomprehension.

“What?”

“He means Earth – he’s just trying to be cute,” Evelyn smirks and scoots over to Abbey. “You’re from Earth too, right?” Her tone is tinged with hopefulness and Abbey nods slowly and sighs.

“Ah, yeah. I was out buying a Gatorade after hockey practice, then the next I know, I’m in a forest surrounded by glowing crystal things and guys in hoods.” She throws some bread grit into the fire and her tone starts to simmer. Evelyn’s eyes glimmer a little as the unfamiliar words make sense for her and she nods along. “Some guy got in my face and started on some bullshit, but then I tried to push him away and that magic thing happened and everything caught fire.”

“Blonde guy with a burn scar?” She grunts in agreement and I smirk. “Did you manage to do him in?”

“No, it kind of bounced off him,” she says. “He’d fucking deserve it though.” She grins, all teeth, but I can see it’s mostly bluster. She looks uncomfortable remembering it and her hands clench to guard against the possibility of another burst of magic.

“And then?” Evelyn asks, smoothing over Abbey’s turmoil.

“I hit the legs and got out of there. Then I snuck on board that boat,” Abbey says anticlimactically. She shrugs and goes quiet again.

I take advantage of the lull in the conversation to fish out our map from my satchel and carefully smooth it over a rock. The ink had run, but it’s still mostly readable, if missing a few town names. I was never going to remember those anyway.

I find Ivyne and trace the Lisenhoff Canal south. By my estimation we are currently somewhere within the blob of forest that clings to the blue squiggly line, like mould on a drainpipe. That is, unless we floated down to one of the dozen or so other forest clumps further downstream. Not to mention the chance that they’re all just aesthetic touches and are only meant look pretty. Whatever, we’ll just have to deal with it.

“Yeah, I was working my shift at a convenience store and fell through a portal,” I zone back into their conversation as Evelyn catches Abbey up. “Then I appeared in a real big cave, all done up with glowing crystals. These two appeared and kidnapped me,” I roll my eyes and she grins. “And we’ve been wandering around ever since. We’re trying to find a way to get back home.”

“Any luck?” Abbey asks, her posture still reticent, but hopefulness flickers in her tone. Evelyn notices and droops a little.

“Not really,” she says sadly. I scratch my head awkwardly, an uncomfortable feeling passing over me as the two of them fold up in on themselves. Even when we had another run in with the cult, I didn’t prioritise figuring out what they did to bring them over. Though to be fair, it wasn’t really the time.

“So how did you guys know where I was?” Abbey breaks the silence, casting a wary eye over the three of us. I sit in silence before it dawns on me that we still haven’t gotten around to explaining the divine errand we’re running. What’s more, it suddenly becomes obvious why she’s still being cagey around us. This probably looks beyond dodgy.

“Ow, wow, I forgot,” Evelyn says sheepishly. “How to explain this?” She mutters. “They’ve got a god around here and she gave us a vision telling us where you were – said that we needed to find you.” Abbey’s frown turns extremely sceptical and Evelyn notices. “Er, Emmet, show her your healing thing.”

I don’t bother mentioning that she’s already seen it – not to mention it looks identical to every other spell anyway. Though I am starting to like the sheer godlessness of these dimension hoppers. Abbey waves Evelyn off and sighs.

“Whatever, I believe you, relax,” she gestures at me. “This guy is shooting fire out of his hands; I can buy gods being real.” Evelyn sighs in relief and Emmet looks a touch more comfortable now that we’ve stopped openly doubting the existence of his god.

They look like they’re going to go into another round of awkward silence, so I clap my hands and head them off before we waste any more time.

“We can fill in the gaps later. The important thing is that we’ve now successfully rescued you,” I say, addressing the three of them, but mostly Abbey. “We’ve done The Mother’s bidding, what’s our next move?”

“Well, we need to tell her,” Emmet says excitedly. I immediately shoot him down.

“I didn’t get poisoned, savaged by a demon and almost drown, just for brownie points and a pat on the back,” I say, actually managing to rile myself up – it had been a long day.

“Isn’t this a god?” Abbey asks, frowning harder, which I interpret as her feeling lost. “What does she want with me anyway?”

“Something about stopping the coming dark – obviously a lie,” I say dismissively as Emmet splutters indignantly. “Anything would be more convincing. It’s literally the kind of thing I said to scam our way onto the ferry – she’s got another angle on this.”

“She might have a good reason,” Emmet says, with less fervour than he usually would. “You’re not trying to blackmail Her, are you?” I wave him off, even if that does sound like a great idea.

No, this god may not know it, but she fucked up when she picked the one group out of the whole world that would consider her divine words, doing her favour. We owe it to ourselves to collect.

“Relax Emmet, I just mean that we can get her to send these two back home – she’s a god, surely she can do that.” Emmet’s eyes widen in understanding and grins. Evelyn and Abbey follow suit and I do too, albeit with a more malicious edge than the others.

“So, how do we get in contact, do we find a church?” Evelyn asks, already packing up our things. I guestimate our position and poke a finger at a smudge that once depicted a village. Every town should have a church, it’s probably a rule. “Abbey, are you okay with this? This is probably all a little wild.”

Abbey stands up and gives us a hard stare. “I’m not interested in being jerked around. I’d rather break that cultist guy’s teeth, but if we can get back home, I’m in.” Evelyn whoops and raises her hand and they slap their palms together. I back away from her swinging hand, but nothing extra-dimensional happens. The two of them grin fiercely at each other and set off.

One way or the other, The Mother needed us for this. We just need to be sure to get something out of it. My head echoes with a buzzing symphony and I supress a wince. How anything like that could be considered a god was anyone’s guess. The back of my neck feels cold and clammy even in the morning sun at the thought of seeing that thing again.

Hours later, with the sun high in the sky, we stumble out of the forest and find ourselves standing in the middle of a pumpkin patch. A dog starts barking at us, straining against a ratty piece of rope, and we quickly vacate the garden. The mutt quietens down as soon as we step off the plot and its droopy ears sag down. Evelyn coos and it rolls onto its back, proffering its chest and wagging its tongue. I leave her to distract the mighty Cerberus and look around.

The cottage that owns the useless dog sits comfortably in front of us. Around it, other cottages and vegetable patches sit in increasing density until it all reaches critical mass and births a town. Nested in the middle, and right next to the pub, a church steeple peeks out above the thatched rooves.

“Is that the right kind?” I ask Emmet, who squints at the seven-pointed star perched at the top of the church steeple.

“It’s a newer one,” Emmet replies. “We were still using busts of The Mother back in Weld, but the central church started phasing in the stars.”

I call Evelyn away before she ruins the dog more than it already is, and head towards the church. We thread between houses without any trouble, not even a hint of the classic rural suspicion peeking from behind shutters. The whole town is empty.

We step into the town square and find it devoid of people too. That feeling of social transgression begins to set in, like we’re somewhere that we’re not meant to be. If the other three weren’t here, I’d probably have picked the next town over instead.

The others must feel a little of the pressure too, as we pick up the pace, my scalp burning with indistinct embarrassment. The townsfolk aren’t even here and they’re pissing me off.

The church sits neatly at the head of the town square. Someone has made a valiant effort to whitewash the building – meaning that they managed the façade and halfway down one of the sides. The doors are closed and locked tight, not budging an inch as I throw my body behind heaving it open – and even as Abbey pushes me aside and tries for herself. It gets to the point that Evelyn even tries knocking, but no one answers.

“Do you guys leave a key under the gargoyles or something?” I turn around and ask Emmet, who doesn’t even bother answering. “Can we just break the least stained window we can find and stick my head in?”

“Can we please try not to sin right before meeting the goddess?” Evelyn asks dramatically and I concede to trying to lift her up so that she can try to look through one of the windows. As expected, there’s no one in there.

We end up sitting on the church steps. I idly wonder whether sitting under the awnings would count as being in the church. Before I can ask Emmet, a roar echoes through the street, emanating from the other side of town. Abbey jumps to her feet, fists up, while the rest of us scramble up after her.

“What the hell?” Abbey exclaims, concern writ across her face. She backs away slightly as another roar follows the first.

“What is that? A dragon?” Evelyn asks me, as if we wouldn’t be able to see it over the rooftops – or be alive.

“Can’t be, it’s not the right season,” I reply snidely, but she just nods in acceptance. Abbey at least has the good graces to look at me aghast. I’m about to suggest buggering off, when Evelyn unwraps her sword.

“Well, we can at least check it out,” she says in response to my appalled expression. “There might be townspeople in trouble.”

I should probably have just stayed put, but unfortunately, I’m stupid enough to follow her. The four of us pick up the pace and thread through the town. The roar grows louder, a rhythmic undertone becoming apparent, as Evelyn cuts through an alley. We take another turn and burst into an open field just as the crowd roars and their cheers echo across the farmland.

Instead of a dragon, a dozen or so people race about across a fallowed pasture, scrabbling for ownership of a ball and seemingly a hair’s breadth from descending into a brawl. Off to the side, a rickety set of tiered benches sways under the weight of the rest of the village. Someone manages to keep hold of the ball long enough to cross a line at the other end of the field, and the crowd explodes with cheers and curses, in equal measure.

“What is this? Rugby?” Evelyn asks, having the gall to sound disappointed.

A guy holding a knitted flag sees us loitering and waves us over, a smile on his face. The players trot back into the middle of the field as someone else adds another tally to a plank of wood next to the bleachers.

“Howdy folks,” he calls as we approach. “You new in town? Here for the game?”

“We were trying to visit the church, but it’s locked,” Evelyn volunteers as our spokesperson. The guy nods sympathetically.

“Yeah, you’re out of luck, the reverend always locks up on game day,” he says. “You can ask him when the game’s done.” He squints out over the pile of players and points generally at the mess of mud and limbs. “He’s the older fellow in yellow.”

As he says that, the reverend bellows and tackles another player. They go down in a tangle of limbs and the balls rolls away, unperturbed by the maelstrom around it. The two of them don’t notice, and soon half the field has joined in the melee.

“Are there any rules to this?” I ask, bewildered, as a spotty youth picks up the uncontested ball and kicks it flying towards the other end of the field. The crowd goes ballistic at the goal, and the youth gets tackled anyway.

“Nah, not really,” he says, and beats his flag in the air as the referee manages to separate the brawl and reset the game. It all sounds incredible stupid. I’m about to say as much when I turn around and see Abbey wearing the first proper smile that I’d seen all day.

“Are the teams already set? Do you reckon I can sub in?” She asks, glancing hungrily at the chaos on the field. The guy sways slightly, the smell of beer hangs heavy in the air. He looks at Abbey with unfocused eyes and nods vaguely.

“I don’t know what ‘subs’ are miss, but I don’t think anyone would mind another set of shoulders out there.” He swings around, almost toppling of the bleachers, and calls out to somebody down below. “Oi, Stevens!” A muffled ‘what’ filters up through the crowd. “Lass wants to play, that alright?” The response is close enough to affirmative for our guy to swing back around and give Abbey the thumbs up.

“Fucking sweet,” she says and awkwardly pauses to check with us. I shrug vaguely and she runs off onto the field. The next second she’s planting her shoulder in some poor fuck’s gut and disappears into the chaos.

“You lot coming up?” The guy asks. I sigh and nod, electing not to trust his proffered hand and clamber onto the scaffold myself.

I shuffle along the bleachers and plop down onto the bench. Another guy carrying a tray of skewers passes by and I buy three of them. It looks like an entire rat impaled on a stick, but he assures me that it’s guinea pig. I pass them down to Evelyn and she takes a tentative bite. When she doesn’t die, I follow suit – it’s pretty alright.

A player kicks the ball and it’s caught by another player at the other end of the field. He has just enough time to make the catch, before he catches a fist in the jaw and the ball is stolen by someone’s mum. The crowd loves it, but I have no idea how any of this is meant to work.

Evelyn’s face is a straight cross between horror and amazement. A teenager catches the ball and gets immediately tackled. Instead of ripping the ball out of his hands, the tackler picks the kid up bodily and runs for his end of the field. They don’t make it, and the ball disappears into the scrum.

“I don’t suppose you had sports like this back home?” I ask around a mouthful of guinea rat. Evelyn can’t look away from the travesty before us, but shakes her head anyway.

“Not like this,” she says in wonder. “I don’t think I’ve seen a single consistent rule. If they did sport like this on Earth, maybe I’d hang around when dad tunes in on Sunday.”

Someone goes flying and inevitably twists something the wrong way. Emmet hops up and sends me a look. I don’t know why people keep asking me for permission, they seem to ignore me right after anyway. I nod and catch his half-finished skewer – which he’s not getting back – and he runs down the bleacher. After a few seconds of waving his hands and explaining, they let him heal the idiot’s twisted ankle. The player gets up and claps Emmet on the back while the rest of them cheer. A few hang about to get their teeth regrown and the game continues.

“You could be back home this time tomorrow,” I find myself saying. Evelyn glances at me and smiles softly.

“Yeah, fingers crossed I guess,” she says and falls silent for a moment. “Definitely going to have a shower as soon as I get back. No offense, but sponge baths suck.”

“They’re not that bad,” I say, even though they are. She chuckles and glances back at the game. “Sometimes we get hot water, it’s not always been that bad.” Her eyes flick to me and they momentarily take on a thoughtful shine, before she smiles at something.

“No, I guess it hasn’t been all bad.” Then she falls silent.

The crowd bursts into cheers and roars as Abbey grabs the ball and starts sprinting towards the other end of the field, sliding and tripping in the mud as she goes. Evelyn glances up and shakes my arm.

“C’mon Lulu,” she says, standing up from the bench. “Let’s cheer her on.”

“Sports aren’t really my thing.”

“That’s fairly obvious,” ouch, rude. “Stop being a grouch, let loose a little.” She grabs my arm and pulls me up. “Go Abbey!”

I rub my arm self consciously and raise my hands up to ear level. Evelyn rolls her eyes and jerks my arm straight up and starts us waving like idiots. She shouts again and knocks me with her hip. I sigh and heave in a breath.

“Go Abbey!” I shout.

“Go Abbey!

“Fuck them up!”

Abbey dodges the innkeeper and kicks the reverend out of her way. Evelyn and I keep shouting like lunatics and a few of the drunken idiots below us join in. She crosses the line and the rest of the crowd cheers. I sink back down, flushed in the face and unable to smother a stupid grin. Evelyn grins back and keeps waving her arms. Down below, Abbey sees us and waves back, her own grin lighting up her face.

She clambers up the bleachers, getting pats on the back and drunken grins as she goes. She plops down beside us, red in the face, covered in mud and puffing for breath. Evelyn pulls my satchel out and hands Abbey a waterskin, which she accepts gratefully. I hand her Emmet’s skewer, which she accepts with slightly less gratitude.

“Y’know,” she starts after a thoughtful pause. “The past few days have really kind of sucked.” Eveyln and I nod in sympathy. “I know that I’ve been a bit grouchy so far,” I nod again and Evelyn taps me with her foot. “I just wanted to say that this has been the best fun – the only fun – that I’ve had here so far. So going with you guys is already a step up from yesterday.” She shrugs and the exercise flush deepens with embarrassment. “So yeah, thanks for coming to get me. You guys are alright.”

Evelyn clasps Abbey’s hands and I give her the courtesy of nodding then leaving her to ride out the embarrassment. Emmet trails back towards us, chatting animatedly with the reverend and I sit back and chew on my skewer.

The sun begins its slow descent and I settle in to listen disinterestedly as Abbey rambles on about her sick plays. This time tomorrow they might be back home, safe and sound. The thought isn’t a bad one, but it sloshes around in my stomach. I look down at my skewer and don’t feel as hungry anymore. I hand it, half-eaten, to a curious Emmet, then I lean back, a frown tickling my brow.